To him,

Meanewell, Andrew .

And. God save you Tutors both.
Mean. Fie Andrew , fie;
What kisse your hand? you smell, not complement.
Hear. Besides, you come too near when you salute.
Your breath may be discover'd; and you give
Advantage unto him you thus accoast
To shake you by the hand, which often doth
Endanger the whole arme. Your Gallant's like
The Chrystall glasse, brittle; rude handling crackes him.

M rs Potlucke

Pot. Now help good Heaven! 'tis such an uncouth thing
To be a widow out of Term-time — — I
Doe feele such aguish Qualmes, and dumps and fits,
And shakings still an end — — I lately was
A wife I do confesse, but yet I had
No husband: he (alas) was dead to me
Even when he liv'd unto the world; I was
A widdow whiles he breath'd; his death did only
Make others know so much. But yet — —
Hear. How now?
So melancholy sweet?

Hear. W E 're made my Boys, we're made; me thinks I am
Growing into a thing that will be worship'd.
Slic. I shall sleep one day in my Chaine, and Skarlet
At Spittle -Sermon.
Shap. Were not my wit such
I'd put out monies of being Maior.
But O this braine of mine! that's it that will
Barre me the City Honour.
Hear. We're cry'd up
O'th' sudden for the sole Tutors of the Age.

'Twould wrong our Author to bespeake your Eares;
Your Persons be adores, but Judgement feares:
For where you please but to dislike, be shall
Be Atheist thought, that worships not his Fall.
Next to not marking, 'tis his hope that you
Who can so ably judge, can pardon too.
His Conversation will not yet supply
Follies enough to make a Comedy;
He cannot write by th' Poll; nor Act we here
Scenes, which perhaps you should see liv'd elsewhere;
No guilty line traduceth any; all
We now present is but conjecturall;

" Say It With Flowers "

Sweetheart, I would send you flow'rs,
On your breast I'd pin them,
Were it not the Freudian pow'rs
See such symbols in them.

There is not a flower that blows
Free from hintings hazy,
From the fragrant, flagrant Rose
To the modest Daisy.

I am strictly Peter Bell
On this floral question,
Yet the Primrose, Freudians tell,

Truth.

" What is truth, " was asked of old,
By one Pilate, Pontius.
Where is truth, we now are told:
'Tis in the Unconscious.

What is this, if not the well
Wherein truth lies hidden?
From which she (as Freudians tell)
Issues forth unbidden?

Down you let your bucket fly,
Seeking inspiration,
And the bucket comes up dry —
Not a cerebration.

So to thy home sweeps down unconquerable
Our iron chariot of the prophet's dream,
Fire-fledged and clothed in cloud and wreathed with steam,
Flashed like a poet's thought through all — cleft hill.
Rent rock and rolling flood and fiery sand,
Laden with Life's humanities, not the brand
Of widow-making war,
To blast thy fields afar,

EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF MEXICO

Open thy storm-dark doors, dear Northern Land,
Star-diademed, pale Priestess of the free,
Walled round by wind and water and that grey sea
Whose morning psalm salutes his Pilgrims' strand,
O thou to whom all great things thought and done
Are dear, all fights for Freedom lost or won,
Queen of the earth's free states,

Because this curse is on the dawn, to yield
her secrecy distill'd of nuptial tears,
and day dismantles, casual, nor reveres
whate'er august our brooding dream'd reveal'd;

because that night to whom we next appeal'd,
no more gestation of inviolate spheres,
shameless, is mimic of the day, nor fears
the scant occurrence of her stars repeal'd:

Therefore, if never in some awful heart
a gather'd peace, impregnable, apart,
cherish us in that shrine of steadfast fire,

be these alone our care, excluding hence

THE WOMB OF NIGHT

How long delays the miracle blossoming,
vermeil and gold, soft fire, flush of the dark,
aurora, and ravish of night's mother ark
still hallow'd 'neath her present cherishing!

The sides of night are anguish'd with this thing,
unnatural, a fear, a rending: hark,
dim mutterings; the gulfs are strain'd and stark:
dark stress, delay, distress, and vanishing.

O womb, dark womb that darkenest, what art
shall set thee free, and us? or must our heart
yet sleep in squalid snowdrifts of the dust?